


The Color Orange

by Measured



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured/pseuds/Measured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the first time he's faced death, or the first time he's been arrested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Color Orange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pemm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pemm/gifts).



> Missing scenes for Unhappy Returns. Feel better, Pemm!

Writing paper was provided as part of the pathetic package they spared for prisoners, though Joey Murders liked to use them as toilet paper, just to make his life miserable. Usually, Scout would've socked him one, but the last few months had been like a punch to the chest which knocked the air right out of him.

It sure was easy to get in fights when he knew there'd be mercenaries or his brothers, and Respawn to back him up.

It wasn't the first time he's been arrested, but usually some of his people would post bail. He'd have to deal with being a fuck up and making his ma cry, but it wasn't like he was the first brother to do that. It was never as serious as death, just a case of waiting and being bored out of his mind while he was cooped up and couldn't run free.

For years, death had just been like waiting in line at the supermarket. Annoying, often incredibly painful, but temporary. He could die and get back in time to hear the rest of his baseball game on the wireless he'd hooked up. It was supposed to be for calls, but what they didn't know didn't hurt them.

The thing that got him the most was how indifferent Spy was to it all. Here they were with death looming overhead, a real, _final_ death, and he wasn't doing anything. He wasn't screaming or crying or even that _mad_. 

Scout didn't understand him back at base, but now he understood the guy even less. Maybe somewhere under that nasty mask Spy had some plan straight out of a bond movie, but he was keeping pretty quiet if he had an laser pens stuck up his teeth.

Scout, he had a plan. Or a million plans, but most failed once he realized that no matter how much he threw himself against the special plates that kept them in, they weren't going to break like out of something in the movies.

He always sucked at about everything in school. Well, he was pretty good at lunch and gym. He'd almost had a shot when the track teacher had gotten a hold of him, but it only took a few fights to get him expelled from yet another school which kept saying he was a good-for-nothing idiot, and eventually he quit trying.

But he still had more plans than he knew what to do with.

He put the pen to the paper and tried to hold it straight. His old teachers were always down on his writing, all jumpy and hard to read. 

_Im soree for bein a fuckup ma. I lost the money we got nothin. There goin to hang me._

He crumpled it up. He always tried to bring the bright side along; his ma had seen way too much darkness in her life. He'd gotten this chance to make it all better, and he was damn good at it. Sure, he didn't tell her how many times a day he died, or show her the scars he got. To her, he was just a messenger boy who delivered papers in this rich fuck place, and that's all she'd ever know. 

It took a lot of control not to just scream and scream, and even then, it wasn't so much control as not wanting Joey Murders to live up to his name.

He wanted to live. He hadn't ever seen the Sox win, he'd never gone all the way with a girl, he wanted to run and fight and _live_.

And he couldn't let his ma down like that, to just give up. Life had taught him that things were going to get shitty and horrible, but if he kicked hard enough, he'd get out. But this time he couldn't expect TF Industries to post bail and give him the one job he could work.

He couldn't expect anything from them anymore.

He leaned on the side of the wall, near where those thin frame things kept him in. Bars, now those they could deal with. Spy was a walking filer—he'd just snark the bars to death, but these fiberglass-like sheets were a tough crowd. Not even a glare and a witty remark could bend them down.

 

*

He had one phone call, but he couldn't bring himself to use it. He didn't know where Miss P was, otherwise his first call would've been him begging her not to hang up on him, begging her to do whatever smart-girl magic she could to get him the hell out of there and back to the week before when he had a steady job and a great life. Before everything went to crap, and his biggest problem was the Sox's terrible season and the fact that he couldn't capture the eye of Miss Pauling no matter how hard he flexed.

And he wasn't kidding about the begging. His pride was in the crapper; he'd get on his knees and start crying like a friggin baby if it meant he'd get to live even just a month longer.

As a rule, he never put anybody over his ma. His brothers always told him— _date whoever you want, but don't you let her get between family. She always comes first._

Or, the real version which he never said around his ma: _Ma before ta-tas, even if they're real good ta-tas._

But, this was different. She could get him out, get _them_ out. Unlike him, she was a real smart cookie. Probably aced all her classes and spent her time in the library hitting the books, instead of hitting the Mullin boys down a granite alley and nearly getting his jaw broke in the process.

But this grand plan where he made an ass of himself and she found a way to get him out had a big hitch: nobody knew where the hell she was.

He squeezed his right arm, so it looked more like he was so ripped that he had to go into contortions to flex himself, rather than the outright wussness that was him holding himself. He was a second away from rocking in a corner.

At this rate, he'd never see her again.

It wasn't that he and Spy were close—Spy wasn't close to anyone. Mostly the guy just would snipe at anybody around him, even people on his own team. It was one thing to trash the other side, but taking it out on your own team was a real low blow.

Except, there wasn't another side anymore. 

He leaned against the bed where Spy was laid back, his eyes closed, like he didn't even worry that Joey Murders would rip out his guts with the toilet brush for fun.

"Hey, Spy—"

"The answer is the same as the last five hundred times you asked," Spy said with a forced evenness. 

"You don't even know what I was goin' to say," Scout said petulantly.

"You always say the same thing. Which is it, your mother, or Miss Pauling?"

He got him there. It was kind of both, but not in a weird way. He was either worrying about his ma, about what would happen, or dealing with this big empty gap that was no Miss Pauling running around and keeping everything in order. His life had hit the crapper the minute she'd gone out the door without him, and he was convinced it was connected.

He focused a lot on her face, her voice, the way her dress hugged her curves that made his brain just shut off. Even if he never saw her again, he wouldn't forget her for a moment.

"Hey, Spy..... What's it called when you miss a girl so much, you even miss her frownin' at you?" Scout said.

"Love, insanity, or masochism. Or some combination of the three," Spy said. He didn't look up from his bartered pack of cigarettes.

"Huh...."

If Scout was smarter, he'd ditch the guy. Or he would've followed after Miss P, who was probably in some island sitting on the beach in a cute purple bikini, wearing oversized sunglasses and a big hat. She'd look just like a cute movie star, and Scout could've gotten her _so_ many drinks. He could've been a great bodyguard to beat the other guys off of her, and even better, he'd accept payment in kisses. Yeah, he was perfect like that.

....Wait a minute, maybe when he got out of this, he could find some lonely rich lady who wanted an errand boy/lover/bodyguard to keep them warm at night. He'd be doing everything he loved, and he wouldn't even need TF Industries! Hard to find a job like that in the classifieds, though.

"Whatever outlandish plot you're thinking of isn't going to come true," Spy said with a sigh.

"Shut up, you don't know me, " Scout said.

"Even your thinking is loud. Before I met you, I wouldn't have thought that possible."

"I friggin' bend possible backwards. _I am the impossible._ "

"You're goin' to be the deadossible if you don't shut the fuck up," Joey Murders muttered. He scraped his nails on the side of the wall and Scout shrunk back. His voice was low, like some two-bit killer off of Ghost Attorney.

When Joey Murders turned to the wall, Scout gave him the finger. Last time he'd given him the finger to his face, that finger had been bent back until it broke. 

Even Scout could learn to be quiet if he had a shank to his throat.

Spy stretched out, quiet and stupidly mysterious as always. The thing was—it was stupid, really—he reminded Scout of this one guy his ma had dated when he was younger, and back before he realized that his ma chose all the wrong guys, so he might as well hate them by default, since he'd get there anyways, and it was better to skip the trusting and liking and inevitable betrayed feeling when they walked out. 

It was something in the manner, the voice that reminded him of that guy, so sometimes when he was really freaked out and Miss Pauling or his mother wasn't around, he'd go to Spy. Even if the guy would probably backstab him, he couldn't cut that knee-jerk nostalgia of that one good guy his ma had loved.

He was a sap sometimes, really. He kept trying to act like he wasn't, but he was. Now more than ever it was getting out and exposing him to hurt. He'd toughened his skin until people laughing and calling him an idiot, people turning him down or ignoring him just pissed him off. Toughened up until he felt like punching them, shooting them in the damn face until they fell down dead.

Rage was something he could use, but sadness and weakness, there was no place for that kind of crap. No use for nostalgia, either. The kind of nostalgia that got him stuck with a practical stranger in a car, then a jail cell. 

Maybe he should've followed Sniper, offered to be his helper and catch some wild animals or whatever crap he was going to do. He could send back some animal skins to make his ma a nice fur coat. But he'd made his choice, and Scout didn't linger on regrets. 

He lingered on her, instead. A memory of a purple sundress and her smile was about all that lightened his mood at all these days. If— _when_ —he saw her again, he'd have to tell her. Somehow, for the first time, words seem complicated. He'd keep running them through his mind and they wouldn't come out right. Jumbled and messy, like his handwriting.

He'd just have to keep trying until he got it right. And until then, there was black hair in the light and a smudge of lipstick in his memories to keep him company.

*

Some poor bastard before them got shanked by Joey Murders, but Scout was lucky enough to find one thing that Joey either hadn't gotten to, or hadn't cared about: a script of Ghost Attorney.

Finally it was all falling into place. This guy was brilliant, even though he was a total stiff. Now, Scout didn't have much time to watch them, workin' all day like he did. Occasionally he'd catch an episode when they were delayed and Demoman managed to battle the rest of the guys for the TV. He always got the guy in the end, and always got his happy ending. Well, as happy as he could, for a dead guy.

Spy kept on eating his tiny chicken from his teeth, but screw him. Scout was going to find some loophole from the grave, he just knew it.

*

Being a man wasn't part of the equation when the rope was rough around his neck, and he was set for the first to go. Soldier and Demoman were right next in line, and it was killing him that he couldn't talk. His mind was a marquee of _I don't wanna die!_ going neon lights over and over.

He gulped as the boards gave way. He'd had more painful deaths, been blown to bits, stabbed and burnt, but those weren't final like this. His mind was a rush of fear, of Miss Pauling's smile, his mother's sad face, and trying to remember all those things in church he never paid attention to. 

 

Her voice cut through his last moments, and a pressure, surer than he could've thought possible. His mind was racing, he couldn't make out everything she was saying. Rope was cutting, and Spy was rubbing his hands.

_Don't forget me, you assoles!_

Her name came out in a choke _Miss.... Pauling....don't let go..._

It still hurt like hell, but his neck wasn't snapped. She sure was a whole lot stronger than he thought she was—good thing she never got it in her mind to punch him.

Here all this time he thought she could've saved him—he just never thought it'd be so literal, or that she'd be the one holding him one step away from death.

*

"I ain't sittin' on the firebug's lap!"

"Well, he sure as hell won't be sittin' on my lap!" Eyelander exclaimed, shuddering with dread magic or whatever made him tick.

"You don't got a lap, rustbucket," Scout said. "Now scoot, slim jim."

"I should have left you to _die_ ," Spy said as he lit a cigarette. 

"Agreed," Demoman said.

Scout rolled his eyes as he was jammed in next to Soldier's thighs which could—and he was fairly sure _had_ ––killed a man. Maybe even more.

"This only has to last until we get plane tickets. I'd trade in for a van, but I think it's best with put some distance between us before they find another reason to come after us with pitchforks and flames," Miss Pauling said.

"Hey, I'm fine. Real fine, I could sit here all day," Scout said. He grinned at her, but she was checking her mirror. He could understand, he got distracted by mirrors all the time. 

She frowned at the dashboard, and he felt just such a surge of happiness. He hadn't seen her frowning like that in _ages_.

"Miss Pauling, Miss Pauling!"

So much filled his mind that he felt crowded and slow. _I missed everything about you—the way the light shines off your hair and the way you fill out that dress and those heels, the way you look when you're angry or busy or saving all our asses, the way you friggin talk. Everything._

"Yes?" she said.

"—What does masochist mean?"

Demoman coughed on his drink, and Spy let out a long sigh.

She rolled her eyes. "I suppose it's too much to ask for you to keep your mind out of the gutter for five seconds."

"Nah, nah–well, _yeah_ , but it's important!" 

"I started this, he's asking after something I said," Spy said. He drew out the moment as he lit a matchstick, lit his cigarette and took a long draw. What a frigging drama queen; Scout could've had this story done in a snap.

"For the record, it's a love of receiving pain," Spy said.

"Whips and chains, laddie boy," Demoman added. 

"Ye _would_ be the type to like some girl in leather orderin' ye around," Eyelander added.

Pyro petted his new dalmatian puppy with one hand, and mimed hitting someone with a whip with his other.

"Huh. Pretty sure I ain't crazy," Scout said.

"You passed the last mental health test with flying colors," Miss Pauling said.

"Hey, can you send that to my ma? She'd love to hear me passin' a test with a high grade for once. She'd probably put it on the fridge with all my runnin' medals and paycheck stubs," Scout said.

"I don't have access to the records any longer, and I really haven't the time right now—"

He caught her gaze in the mirror. 

"Oh, all right. But only when I have a free moment and the team is assembled again."

Well, he wasn't insane, and he probably wasn't just craving pain, so....

Throughout the time in prison, he'd ached for so many things. He wanted to go to Fenway park again, hug his ma again. He wanted to _live_ and kiss girls and touch girls and sleep with girls and look at girls and—

No, it hadn't been just girls on his mind; it'd been her. Every memory of her was held close, not like some treasure hidden away, but a buoy to keep him afloat and a comfort all in one.

So, he was in love. He'd never really thought about it. Love was for sappy songs and movies his ma liked. It'd mean he was going to have to hang up his carousing ways and stop flirting with every girl, and start doing girly stuff like getting flowers and crap.

But all heroes had a special girl. Even frigging Ghost Attorney had his ghost girlfriend. It drove them, centered them, and no story was really complete without it.

Being in love with Miss Pauling was like being even closer to being a superhero. He already had the skills, the speed and the style. She was like a sexy Alfred meets Lois Lane with a dash of Wonder Woman in a super cute package. She could do that verb thing, she could read and kick people's ass with her sexy knowledge, and he had a feeling she'd be a great partner in crime.

He grinned at her in the rear view. She didn't even roll her eyes or completely ignore him this time. As far as Scout was concerned, that was major progress.


End file.
